


What kind of supervillian has an emotional support animal?

by SmidgeonPigeon



Category: Spies In Disguise (2019)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Panic Attacks, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22727554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmidgeonPigeon/pseuds/SmidgeonPigeon
Summary: Walter Beckett is brilliant, polite, and endlessly optimistic.Unfortunately, people tend to overlook all your other good qualities when you're a supervillian.
Relationships: Walter Beckett & Lance Sterling
Comments: 169
Kudos: 575





	1. Fanboy

"Oh! Oh, _wow_. Agent Sterling? _The Agent Lance Sterling_ in my secret hideout? I don't believe it. I mean, I can believe it but uh-well I heard you were good but this! This is _amazing_! How did you find me? I disabled all radio frequencies within a 200 mile radius!"

Lance Sterling came to with a severe crick in his neck, a dry throat, and the cold bite of metal on his wrists securing him to an unbelievably uncomfortable chair.

It took a few seconds to adjust his vision against the harsh glare of incandescent light and a swimming blur of orange and blue that slowly came into focus before him.

The distorted colors shimmied before his eyes before finally settling on a shape: a young man with bouncy brown curls and luminous blue eyes sporting a hoodie and a cooing pigeon settled comfortably on his shoulder.

As his late grandmother used to say:

_What the $%#@ &_

The young man prattled on.

"I mean if anyone was gonna find me I guess it had to be you though. I've been following your exploits for a while now. See?"

Lance was now face to face with his own likeness in the shape of an album collage of surveillance camera images and that one interview he'd given for The Agency's employee-only newspaper.

"I really enjoyed your interview by the way. Your story about the ice cream truck was really funny."

"Don't tell me you went through all this trouble for an autograph. Most of my fans just send letters," Lance said with a wry smile.

He carefully smoothed his face into a mask of cavalier diffidence and scanned the environment for potential hostiles and exits. It looked like they were in a lab straight out of Back to the Future with no other occupants, windows, or doorways.

This meant they were either in a sealed bunker (unlikely), underground, or underwater.

"Gosh, no. I honestly never thought we'd ever actually meet," the young man admitted with a bashful smile.

The Leave it to Beaver Good Boy Next Door to the Brady Bunch energy oozing out of the kid was disconcerting enough to make Lance's head spin.

Was he really the criminal mastermind the agency had poured over half their resources into capturing the past five months or supervillain's little errand boy?

Only one way to find out.

"Well here I am. Hope you don't mind I took out one of your little killbots."

"Hm? Oh, that was just a prototype. I've reworked the motion sense technology once I worked out how you'd disabled it. It really was very clever to use smoke to cloak your movements and take advantage of it's blind spot."

The kid had, around mid-explanation, sank down to the floor and pillowed his head on slender crossed arms over Lance's _knees_.

The breach of personal space as a power play was not uncommon with the more unsavory characters in a secret Agent's line of work but this felt different.

It seemed to happen naturally and lacked the obvious ulterior motive which, strangely, made the action all the more disturbing. It was almost child-like, even.

Lance wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, either way.

"Aren't you a little young to be playing with the big boys, junior?" He asked, smirking.

"You can call me Walter. And I figure, why wait? Age isn't a signifier of competence. Not anymore." Walter replied, gently pushing himself off and back onto his feet.

The pigeon bobbed it's head at the sudden movement and received a gentle finger stroke to the chest to placate it.

"What's with the bird?"

"This is Lovey. She's my emotional support animal," Walter replied easily, mind already on an unseen matter of greater interest than the captive super spy before him.

"What kind of supervillian has an emotional support animal?"

Walter smiled and walked past him in favor of an answer. Unable to turn around and see where he was going, secret agent Lance Sterling heard the breathy whoosh of a hermetically sealed door opening and closing behind him.

He was left alone in silence with a growing headache and racing thoughts.


	2. Who's afraid of the big bad cyborg?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walter pays Killian a home visit to discuss business.

_"Oi, kid. You listening?"_

Walter Beckett felt himself blink back to the present in time to catch Killian's exasperated sidelong glance.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, I was just uh...what-what was the question again?"

Killian resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration and was aided by the fact that he already had one claw full of a struggling Agency rookie. If they kept whimpering and carrying on as they were he might need his free hand to shut them down.

"Would you be so kind as to settle down? I'm trying to have a polite conversation with my friend, here."

The whimpering subsided but only barely. Killian turned his attention back to Walter who seemed to be losing focus again. That was the trouble with youths nowadays. Their attention spans rivaled that of a butterfly in a rose garden.

"I said, when will you have those modifications done on my bots?"

"Our bots," Walter corrected gently with a smile. "It's my tech making them run, Killian. And soon. I just need to run a few more tests to be absolutely sure they can't be hacked or traced back to either of us. I'm sure a professional such as yourself can appreciate the precaution."

 _Because_ , he thought privately , _somehow one of them must have led Lance Sterling right to my doorstep._

Killian scoffed. "It better be worth the wait."

"Oh, it will be. Definitely," Walter enthused, sparing a glance at the mess of a man suspended by Killian's claw.

"What are you going to do with him?"

"What's left to do," Killian answered plainly.

"Who else knows you're here?"

" _N-n-no one! No one! Please let me go!"_

"As you wish."

Killian obliged his captive over the precipice of the open window by which he stood, overlooking a bed of jagged ocean rocks below.

The agent's panicked scream cut the air and promptly faded. Walter winced upon hearing the distant but unmistakable crack upon impact.

"That wasn't very nice. They'll come looking for him. You should have gotten rid of him somewhere else."

Killian didn't respond but then, Walter had been clued in upon their first meeting nine months back that the man wasn't much of a sparking conversationalist.

On a whim, and because he was still giddy over the knowledge of having a super secret hostage in his lab, Walter Beckett clasped his hands behind him, lightly bouncing toe to heel and playfully asked,

"What if they send Lance Sterling after you next?"

Killian, usually so deliberate to the point of being languid in his movements whirled around so fiercely the young scientist took a few steps back in surprise. A metallic vice caught him by the shirt front and suddenly Killian was very close and very focused.

_"What do you know about Sterling?"_

Walter held up both hands in a placating gesture of surrender, eyes wide. His feet were no longer touching the ground.

"Who doesn't know about him? People talk, y'know?"

"Answer the question, Beckett," Killian demanded in a low growl.

Without warning, a pink goo began to ooze onto Killian's claw, sending a wave of electric impulses that tore a cry from the villian's throat. He released Walter and stumbled back, glaring murderously as the ions fizzled and crackled in the air as the attack subsided.

Walter adjusted his clothing, hoping it hadn't been stretched. This was his favorite hoodie, after all. 

"Anyway, it was just a question. I didn't think it'd upset you so much. Sorry. If you'd like I can make some adjustments to the face mapping tech. Looks like that low voltage was enough to short circuit it. Wouldn't want yourself exposed while you're in disguise at the lightest little shock, right?"

When Killian didn't respond, Walter added,

"On the house, this time." 

"I want those bots finished."

"Come onnn, you know I always deliver. This little mod is just a bonus. A way of taking care of my repeat customer," Walter said with what he hoped was a charming wink. Lance Sterling made it look easy.

"Fine. Now get out."

All the charm of sandpaper coated tissues. Walter gave a jaunty wave and walked towards the lip of the open window before stepping off the ledge and into the hovercraft waiting just below. It took off immediately, leaving behind the grim conspicuous lair until there was only ocean for miles around.

Lovey was settled comfortably in her miniature seat filled with plush nesting material and cooed affectionately at her owner. 

"Well Lovey, that went better than expected, actually," Walter said, breathing a sigh of relief. 

"But between you and me I'll be happy to be home. Besides, I'd like to check in on Mr. Sterling before we call it a night."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're another chapter closer to discovering why Walter contributes his talents for the forces of evil and profit. It's gonna be juicy.
> 
> PSA: COMMENTS AND KUDOS FEED MY ARTISTIC SOUL


	3. Hand to Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's weird by the way. It got weird.

"Honey, I'm home!" Walter called into the darkness with a singsong voice.

"Kidding," he amended quickly. It was a childish thing to do, repeating what he's seen in old tv shows but it seemed better than entering a dead quiet space in silence.

The metal platform hidden under the ocean depths concealing his home rose to receive the hovercraft which lowered itself into the chamber with calculated precision.

"Are you hungry, Lovey? I'm starving," Walter told her, holding a hand to his stomach for emphasis as they disembarked and entered the hangar below.

He supposed Lance Sterling would be hungry too. And thirsty. He definitely needed to be a better host to his guest. With Lovey in tow the young scientist entered the rarely used kitchen and opened the fridge to find...nothing. 

"Ah. That's right. I've been in Japan discussing a project with Kimura the last two weeks." He shut the door and tapped a finger to his chin, contemplating. 

"Indian or Thai? Maybe Mediterranean. I could go for falafel. I wonder what Mr. Sterling would like," he mused, prying open a drawer and emptying a handful of organic birdseed into Lovey's bowl. She cooed warmly and immediately began to feast. 

"Enjoy that, Lovey." 

Walter drew out his phone, finger hovering over speed dial. He was grateful the places he ordered from allowed him to pick up his food remotely via drone. It made life infinitely easier. 

He hesitated and chewed his lip, looking beyond the kitchen to the door on the far left of the room, leading to the lab. 

"I really should ask Mr. Sterling what he'd like. But how am I gonna get him to agree to not attack me if I let him go?" 

Walter suddenly regretted not having a dungeon or spare room in which to lock his guest whose arms and legs had been classified as lethal weapons. He shrugged. 

"Cross that bridge when we get to it." Lovey, finally full, flapped over gently and settled on her owner's head, a few ounces heavier than before. 

Walter felt his heart pounding as he input the code to enter the lab. If anyone had told him someday he would be asking _the_ Lance Sterling what he wanted for lunch he would have laughed at the statistical improbability of the scenario. 

And now here he was, about to take his order and then proceed to have lunch with the man himself. It was unreal. The door whooshed open and Walter stepped inside, reminding himself to be cool.

"Mister Sterling? Are you hungry? I was thinking of ordering some dinner. What would you like?"

The Spy continued sitting in the chair with his back turned. After a few seconds of no response, Walter tried again, this time taking his first few steps inside.

"Mr. Ster-"

A tremendous pressure wrapped itself around Walter Beckett's neck like a python and he felt Lovey coo in panic and scatter in a flurry of feathers.

He couldn't breathe and it immediately registered that he was being choked out by the man in question. 

"You really think I couldn't get out of that? _Me_? Not as smart as you look."

Walter tried to answer, he really did, but it was impossible without the proper oxygen. His legs kicked uselessly and hands clawed ineffectively at the steel grip of Sterling's arms.

Lovey flew back and flapped her wings in the spy's face in an attempt to free her master. 

_Uh oh._

Walter felt his vision begin to go fuzzy at the edges. He needed to act quickly.

" _Lovey, get back!_ " Walter cried with his last bit of air before Lance felt something take the fight out of him. 

"What the..."

Whatever he'd just been zapped with reduced his arms and legs to the stuctural stability of jello and it took all his remaining strength not to collapse violently to the ground. He did, any way, to his great disappointment, staring at the darkened high ceiling above in confused anger.

Beside him, Walter sank to his knees dry coughing, a protective hand resting against his injured throat. Lovey settled on his shoulder again, nuzzling him protectively.

"I wish you hadn't done that," he rasped quietly between coughs.

"Let me guess," Lance interrupted with great difficulty. His tongue felt numb and unnaturally unstructured.

"Because I'm gonna regret it?"

"No. Because I'm going to have nightmares about it now," Walter replied sadly.

" _What is with you_ ," Sterling asked in frustration.

"Huh?"

"I mean are you really a supervillian? Or did you miss the class where they covered types of personality acceptable in the industry?"

The secret agent's view of the cieling was replaced by a face hovering over his.

"Would you rather I be twenty years older and bitter, Agent Sterling? Is that your type?"

_Oh for the love of-_

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like _that_."

"I don't understand."

"Good. Just drop it." 

Just talking to the kid was exhausting.

Walter sat back, confused. He just wanted to know what type of supervillians filled Lance Sterling's rouges gallery. Men like Killian, he'd expect.

"Okay."

Lance was just about to ask to what end Walter was creating death machines when he felt something happening to his left hand. Glancing down he saw the kid had picked it up and was examining it like some sort of specimen. 

"What are you doing?" He asked, evenly.

Lance Sterling did not like to be touched. Not even a little. The only thing worse was being touched while his body refused to obey him under the effects of whatever relaxant he was under. 

It suddenly struck him how vulnerable he was right that moment and he would have squirmed at the realization if (again) his body had the decency to obey. It didn't.

Walter traced the inside of Sterling's palm like a child drawing an outline in the sand. His body had acted on impulse and he didn't hear the spy's question. 

Lance Sterling's hand was rough and callused. A far cry from Walter whose hands were soft and absent of any scarring. He was always so careful to take care of them, seeing them only second to his brain as tools of his craft.  
  
At the base of Sterling's palm was a curved white scar like a sliver of moon. It must have hurt terribly when it was made, he thought, absently, recalling how many nerves were at the extremities. 

Next, he curled Lance's hand into a loose fist. How many men had he killed with this hand? If the rumors were to be believed, likely more than Walter could realistically imagine. Even now he could see scar tissue from the skin being ruptured time and time again at the knuckles.

"People like you, agent Sterling," he caught himself saying, unfurling the spy's fingers slowly, "-hate the less fortunate. You destroy indiscriminately in the name of justice."

"Is that what you call it?" Lance sneered, irritation quickly scaling to anger at continually being manhandled by a...a...a brat with no concept of personal space and a persecution complex.

Walter now held their palms flush against each other and seemed to be marveling at the difference in size. Enough was enough. The only way Lance was going to put a stop to this was by provoking the kid in anger. Literally anything was preferable to this unique brand of torture.

"You're just like all the other lowlifes. Using your talent to hurt innocent people and then playing the victim when it suits you. Pathetic."

Walter froze. 

_Ah, that got him._

Lance Sterling braced himself for a retaliation that never came. Instead of replying or hitting him the kid did something else entirely.

Calmly and without a word, he unzipped his hoodie and laid it neatly on the ground beside him. 

_What's he doing now??_

Then, he slowly began unbuttoning his checkered blue shirt from the bottom up, stopping at the fifth clasp. What happened next Lance had no way of preparing himself for. 

With the same level of gentleness, Walter pulled Sterling's fingers up and settled them just above his left hip bone, under the half opened shirt. 

Sterling panicked like a bird caught in a wire trap, unable to move aside from the manipulations but suddenly feeling his breath come very fast.

" _Ey what the hell do you think you're doing?!_ "

"Fireplace poker. Still warm from the coals."

It took the spy a moment to register the meaning of the words but he could feel distorted flesh unseen by the curtained effect of the fabric still hanging over it.  
He looked up to make eye contact but the gaze in front of him was downcast and expressionless.

Walter moved their hands again, this time stopping just above the belly button where Sterling could feel a raised horizontal line about two inches across.

"Steak knife. Required two blood transfusions."

"Why are you-"

Walter didn't allow him to finish, moving again to the third and fourth rib on the right. A peppering of pockmarks settled there like a small colony.

"Cigarette. Seven total."

Lance resisted the urge to shudder. He felt sick in a way he never had before. 

"And finally," Walter continued, this time leaning forward and resting Lance's palm to cup under the curve of his slender jawline. 

This time he held the spy's gaze with unwavering blue eyes. A thin but unmistakable raised scar running from the kid's ear all the way to his chin could be felt.

"Paring knife. Attempted sli-"

" _Stop_."

Unflappable Lance Sterling felt himself break out in a cold sweat. He couldn't take more of this. It was making his skin crawl and his head tight as if the oxygen inside his cells was expanding too much and too fast.

"Just stop."

Walter did and finally returned Lance's hand. The spy in front of him closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through gritted teeth.

"Why are you doing this? What's your plan with those robots we've been seeing everywhere."

He didn't expect an answer. He really didn't. But the kid was nothing if not full of surprises.

"I want you to understand me, Mr. Sterling. And I don't know. It's not up to me."

Just as before Walter suddenly saw it fit to leave the superspy as he was and left the room for all the world as if nothing at all had happened.   
  


On the other side of the wall Walter Beckett leaned against the metal frame and slid to the floor. He raised a hand to his mouth, surprised at himself. 

"What on earth did I just do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing this I remember thinking, 
> 
> "Wow, that escalated quickly."  
> Then, "It's still escalating. We're going to the top floor, baby."
> 
> Ok but this is probably as grim (and weird) as it's gonna get. Fascinatingly enough, what started as a 3 chapter fic grew to 4 and has now ballooned to 5. Something resembling a plot has finally developed and I want to bring Killian in for one last hurrah before ending the story in a satisfactory manner. :) 
> 
> COMMENTS MAKE MY DAY SO PLEASE LEAVE A VERBAL TIP IF YOU ARE SO INCLINED THANK YOUUU.


	4. A lonely boy is an easy target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance puts an insidious plan in motion and I guarantee people will still feel bad for Walter even though he's a villain.

It took the better part of an hour for the anesthetic effects to work themselves through Lance Sterling's bloodstream. 

This forced break, coupled with the complete isolation of a well lit laboratory and a cold floor gave him ample time to think. 

Firstly, a strategy to accomplish the following was needed:

1) Haul his kidnapper into Agency custody.

2) Get back to the Agency to accomplish #1.

3) Food. He hasn't eaten in over ten hours. 

No problem. There were just a few facts about the current situation possessing a distinctly Catch-22 character.

1) His opponent, while physically outmatched, was covered in high tech protection. After Lance's failed attempt to subdue him, it was 1000% likely he would take precautions and therefore be impossible to take out without great physical risk and probable failure. 

2) His ride to the current address involved hijacking one of the killbots the kid had designed like a carousel pony after disabling the death lasers. He honestly never expected it to bring him to...wherever they were. With all communications disabled he had no way of contacting anyone about his whereabouts. 

3) His captor was the only one who could provide a meal.

Lance's frown deepened. There was one more thing that made the whole affair ten times more challenging:

4) He had no idea what he was up against. Like, _at all_. 

No villain in his twelve years of spy work was even remotely like the incomprehensible puzzle known as _Walter_. Every interaction made Lance's head spin, discombobulating him and setting him at a huge disadvantage with making any progress. 

_Know your target, Sterling. Learn their weakness and exploit it._

Lance wiggled his fingers and tentatively made a fist. His body was beginning to cooperate again as his mind raced, hungry for an answer. He could raise himself to his elbows now even if his legs still felt like overcooked spaghetti. 

_I want you to understand me, Mr. Sterling._

Lance felt realization strike him like a pigeon zapped by lighting on a telephone wire. 

_The best way to take this kid down is to get him to trust me._

As for the how, he would work it out as he went along _._ The key takeaway here was the kid had revealed a want. A very _specific_ want that Lance could use to his advantage. 

It would be like past missions where seduction was a key element in getting what he needed from a target. Only this time he would employ subtlety and tact to get Walter to believe Lance Sterling, (his _hostage)_ cared and wanted to get to know him. 

He shook his head.

_This boy needs help._

Lance felt a shiver snake down his spine.

Ah, that's right. He hasn't taken a leak for half a day. 

Fantastic. 

* * *

Let it never be said that secret agent Lance Sterling was anything short of extraordinarily resourceful. The fact that he, through sheer willpower and manliness, managed to drag his half paralyzed body to the bathroom at the end of the room and successfully relieve himself through a series of acrobatics that were _nobody's business_ was nothing short of award worthy. Once that was done, he scrunched his nose in distaste at the available hand soap. 

_Fluffy Strawberry Marshmallow Daydreams_

Being reminded he was losing to an absolute child did nothing for his pride as he lathered his hands with the bare minimum of abominable glittery pink foam. It smelled like candy. 

_I'll make him pay for this_ , Sterling vowed bitterly.

_Nobody makes Lance Sterling wash his hands with glitter and not live to regret it._

With the nightmare of the bathroom behind him, the spy felt some degree of feeling return to his legs. With no little effort, he found they could prop him up as well as a newborn fawn. It would have to do. Using the wall as support, he sidled along and reached the door eventually. He raised a hand to knock and was surprised the doors parted to allow him access into the room beyond. 

Immediately, the tantalizing smells of spices, garlic, and rice wafted towards him. Just a few feet in front of a marble counter top lay a beautiful assortment of takeout containers from a restaurant Lance was surprised he could identify: The Kabob King. A quick glance to the left revealed the back of the kidnapper's head. He was seated on a large white couch facing a blank wall that had been converted into a projector screen. It was showcasing an Asian program on low volume. Walter spoke without looking back.

"I wasn't sure what you'd like so I ordered a few things."

Lance hobbled over, bracing himself against the counter for support. He felt he could stand more easily now but there was no sense in courting disaster unnecessarily. A quick inspection of the contents revealed a variety of dishes but no meat to speak of. Shame. At least chickpeas were packed with protein. 

_I'll need all the energy I can get to deal with this weirdo._

Lance thought, biting into a delightful mouthful of smooth hummus and warm chewy pita.

Walter continued watching his show and Lance felt satisfied that item three on his list was taken care of. Now for the tricky bit. 

Consolidating several containers worth of food into one and with plastic fork in hand, Lance strolled over towards his quarry. His legs, now having graduated to a colony of ants crawling busily up and down the length of his thighs and calves managed to cooperate so he could swing one long leg over the other and grab a seat at the far end of the couch to join Walter, who turned to look at him in alarm.

Lance casually forked a steamy mound of basmati rice, eyes fixed on the screen.

"So," he asked between chews, "What are we watching?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can tell you right now kid shampoos and soaps have the BEST artificial strawberry scents. It really is like perfuming your hair with candy. Lance doesn't know a good thing when he sees it but my boy Walter does so that's good enough for me. 
> 
> The next chapter will be extremely indulgent and with things happening besides Will Smith's character internal monologuing and taking a wee. Stay tuned!
> 
> Disclaimer: No pigeons were harmed in the making of this chapter. 
> 
> Also, how does this fic continue getting progressively longer???


	5. We build (then we break)

Walter feared, for a moment, that a dormant brain tumor had suddenly activated and was resulting in a really nice hallucination. 

Secret Agent Lance Sterling was casually seated at the far end of the couch and eating without a care in the world, eyes glued to the screen. He had even expressed interest in what Walter was watching.

“It’s...Hearts of Seoul," He replied, awed.

“Where are the subtitles? Wait, can you actually understand this?”

“Yeah, I...I learned Korean a little while ago,” Walter admitted, suddenly self conscious. 

“Huh.” The spy took another bite of his meal, seeming to have lost interest. 

“ _But_! I can turn on the subtitles if you’d like to watch, Mister Sterling!” He quickly amended, trying to recapture the man's interest.

“For real?”

“Of course! Uh, we can even start it from the beginning if you’d like. I’ve actually already watched the entire series. This is the first episode. You’ll be really lost otherwise.”

Lance Sterling gave a casual half nod that Walter decided was the coolest, most effortless thing he’d ever seen. He’d have to try and practice it behind closed doors, later. 

“Alright. Let’s do it,” Lance agreed, settling back to get more comfortable to Walter’s immeasurable delight.

“Great!” Walter exclaimed, a little breathlessly. Maybe he really had had an aneurysm. Either way, this was the best hallucination he could have hoped for.

It was al _most_ enough to banish the bizarre encounter in the lab from his mind. Almost. 

Soon, the two of them were contentedly settled, watching Walter’s favorite K-drama. Every now and then the young scientist cast sidelong glances at the spy to gage his reaction to certain scenes. To his relief, Sterling would smile and, occasionally, ask clarifying questions, finding it difficult to keep track of the leading lady’s twin male love interests. 

Walter wished the episode would never end.

* * *

It was just _sad_ how eager the kid was. Sterling almost felt bad for him. Almost _._

He was practically foaming at the mouth over the prospect of watching some soppy drama with Lance who couldn’t be less interested in if he tried. During the next agonizing hour (were all Korean programs this drawn out?) Lance gathered more intel about his target:

_Starved for attention._

_Awkwardly undersocialized._

_Desperate for validation._

_Excessively accommodating._

_Likely_ _a loner lacking close interpersonal relationships._

Lance Sterling resisted the urge to scowl in favor of laughing at an unfunny joke on screen, feeling the kid’s eyes on him for the umpteenth time. Walter would be easy to emotionally manipulate, sure, but there was another problem;

Lance would have to find something he could use to _control_ him once trust was established.

Something he could hold over Walter to get him to do his bidding without question and help him escape. How had he missed such an obvious fact? 

“What did you think?” 

“Not bad. I can see why you like it,” Lance lied through his teeth, flashing Walter a suave smile. 

Walter’s grin almost flew off his face. “If you want, we could watch another episode! Unless you don’t want to or-or you’re tired.” 

_Anything but that._

Lance’s mind flashed back to Walter pressing his hand over his scars.

_Almost anything but that._

"Actually, Walter," He began, pointedly ignoring how the kid's eyes sparkled at having Lance utter his name. 

"I've been thinking about something for a while now."

Walter turned to face him, drawing up his posture a little straighter.

"What is it?"

"What you said earlier. It got me thinking...nah, it's stupid, nevermind," Sterling trailed off with scripted hesitation.

"Oh no, I'm sure it isn't. Please, tell me," Walter encouraged gently. 

_This is too easy._

_"_ Well," Lance continued, scratching the back of his neck in mock bashfulness. 

"I was thinking about what you said. About how you want to be understood."

Walter blinked rapidly but said nothing.

"Actually, _everything_ you said. You. Me. All-" Lance opened his arms to take in the room. _"this."_

The spy rose to his feet and started pacing, aiming for the right amount of doubt and conviction in his delivery. 

"I've never asked myself why the guys on the other side do what they do,"

_Because they're pathetic bullies._

"But maybe I should. I know the Agency has done some...questionable things in the name of public safety…"

_Ends justify the means._

At this point Sterling stopped to stand in front of Walter who was hanging on his every word. 

"You're more than the guy in the opposite side. None of the others would have left me alive if they could help it. None of them would have fed me. So. I want to know. Who are you?"

If Lance had to criticize one aspect of his performance it was that it didn't allow him to punch Walter on the mouth in recompense for the kidnapping, drugging, non-consensual touching, and glitter. 

As it stood, he did a fantastic job because the kid was so gooey-eyed he was starting to look like one of the characters from the _Hearts of Whatever._

Ten seconds passed in total silence. 

While groaning internally, Lance kept his frustration from showing on his face and asked, "Was it something I said?" 

Walter finally remembered how to speak again.

"Yeah, actually. Sorry, I just…no one's ever asked me that before. No one's ever taken the time. I wouldn't even know what to tell you, right now. Um, let me show you to your room, Agent Sterling. You must be tired after a long day."

"Call me Lance."

"I don't think I can," Walter answered honestly, standing and beackoning him to follow. One of the dark grey walls opened after an iris scan granted Walter access to the hidden space beyond. As they walked down a smooth concrete corridor, Lance realized the lair could be massive.

Who knew how many rooms there were or the weapons within the Agency could confiscate. For all his flaws Lance had to hand it to the pint-sized villain: he was a brilliant inventor. 

The room Walter ushered him into was a modestly furnished guest room with furniture bolted to the floor and no mirrors or other objects in sight that could be used as weapons. 

"No one's ever actually used the guest room, so, you'll be the first one!" Walter babbled excitedly. "There are pajamas and extra sheets in the closet and bottled water inside the nightstand. The bathroom is behind that door. I'll...I'll see you in the morning, Agent Sterling. Have a good night."

Walter left and Lance felt himself unconsciously release some of the tension he'd been holding. He smiled. Walter hadn't jumped at the chance to talk about himself but then again, Lance hadnt expected him to on the first pass. Either way, it was obvious Lance had made good progress. 

With the satisfaction of a job well done, the spy sauntered into the bathroom after slipping out of his bespoke suit and hanging it in the closet. 

He hummed to himself and showered comfortably, allowing the warm pressurized water to relax his muscles and soothe his mind. 

* * *

In a room beyond, Walter Beckett sat on his bed, clutching a plush faux fur pillow to his chest. He stared at the ceiling, mind and heart racing. 

"Lovey," he called, receiving a gentle coo in response.

"I think Mister Sterling and I are gonna be friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: Lovey is my second favorite character and I love everything about her. She may be an Archangel pigeon according to Google. That's especially fitting because she's there to protect Walter from emotional distress. 
> 
> About this chapter:
> 
> Things are revving up for this one way train to Emotional Painville and I never thought I could have this much fun with a fanfic. I love these two oddballs too much. That said...
> 
> *holds out hat like a street performer*
> 
> "This show is completely free but please leave a comment if you enjoyed it! 💖"


	6. The way to a man's heart (is through the stomach)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best chapter I've written by far, in my humble estimation. ^^

Lance Sterling woke up with a pleasant tingling sensation in his limbs from a solid sleep in a soft bed. He stretched luxuriously, staring at the ceiling a few seconds before sliding off the bed for his morning workout. Between crunches, pushups, and squats, his mind busily mapped a strategy for the continuation of his escape plan. 

"I'm coming for ya, Walter," he muttered under his breath with a smirk. 

After a quick shower he was dressed and ready for anything. The door to his gilded cage slid open (as he knew it would) and he walked through the hallway and into the main living area.

Lance froze in his tracks. 

The door opening had brought him face to face with the glowing red eye of another killbot. 

The spy tensed, ready to strike or dodge when he heard a voice chirp, "Good morning, Agent Sterling! I trust you slept well?" 

Lance dared to take his eyes off his opponent to look beyond it and confirm something. Walter was nowhere in sight. He exhaled, trying to expel all of the unused adrenaline. 

"Dude. You almost gave me a heart attack," he replied, speaking to the bot. The red glow dimmed slightly as Walter spoke. 

"Oh, gosh, sorry. My bad. I just wanted to let you know I had to step out early for an emergency business meeting-"

Lance resisted the urge to balk at the phrase _business meeting._

"-so I won't be back for a couple of hours."

The robot turned and hovered to the fridge, prizing open the door to reveal it stuffed to bursting with foodstuffs.

"But I had the drones do some shopping! I remember in your interview you said you like to cook on weekends and today _is_ Saturday…"

Walter's voice trailed off as though he were listening to someone in the room who Lance couldn't hear. 

"Oh, gotta go! I'll see you around two! If you need anything the bot can help you okay bye!"

The call rang off and the killbot rose to the ceiling where it could assume a higher vantage point. 

_No doubt to monitor me._ Sterling thought, smugly proud of himself for having set in motion a plan the machine had no way of safeguarding against. 

Walking to the fridge revealed enough food to cater a lavish dinner party. To Lance's relief, the Millennial (suspiciously vegan) villain had had the consideration to pick up a carton of free range eggs for him. Grabbing four of those, a bell pepper, vegan cheese ( _called it_ ), and some substitute butter spread, Lance got to work frying up an amazing omelette. As he whisked the yolks with a pair of disposable wood chopsticks, his eyes roved around the kitchen. The small digital clock above the stove read _9:32 am._ Beside it, a shelf built into the wall housed a set of old school cookbooks, one of the spines yellowed and worn. _The Original Betty Crocker for Housewives and Bachelors._ Of course. 

Lance reached for it, having a few minutes to kill while the pan warmed up. Putting eggs into cold teflon was a rookie move, no matter how hungry you were. 

The book was quaintly 1950's with an overabundance of jello recipes and dated vernacular. Some of the pages were marked with sticky notes which looked more recent. Sterling flipped to those. They were mostly desserts, including whoopie pies which, Lance had to admit, looked _really good right now._

Losing interest, he was ready to shelve the book when he flipped to the last sticky. Tucked within the pages of _Classic Snickerdoodles_ was a note and Polaroid picture. The note was crudely scrawled in blue crayon. 

**_My first resipee with mom!!! 2008_ **

The picture was a photo by the seaside. The sky in the picture looked grainy and overcast with a thin line of blue in the horizon capturing the immortal ocean frozen in time. The gloomy setting framed a young woman with a tired smile and weary eyes who stared at the camera with a child in her lap. The little boy with a striking gap tooth Sterling immediately recognized as a younger Walter.

Next to them was what was left of a man's thigh in yellow swim trunks and part of an arm. The rest of him had been torn out. 

"Huh," the Agent said to himself, turning the picture over. In small neat letters the words _Beckett Family Photo 2008_ were printed in blue ink. 

Lance's felt something in the back of his mind wiggle like a loose floor tile. 

_Beckett. Beckett...why does that name sound so familiar?_

He wondered, returning the past to its proper place and pouring the egg, bell pepper and onion mix into the hot greased pan. It sizzled steadily as Sterling cracked just-right amounts of pepper and salt into the mixture. 

Even as he sat down to eat the perfect omelette after grabbing a lemonade from the fridge the memory corresponding to the name stayed hidden somewhere in the recesses of his mind. With all of his tech disabled it wasn't like he could Google search _Walter Beckett_ either. He shook his head and looked at the clock again: 9:55am.

Lance groaned. How was he supposed to put his plan into action with nothing to do for the next four hou-

_Wait a minute. Wait. One. Hot. Minute!_

With an unexpected spark of inspiration, Lance Sterling all but leapt from his chair and made a beeline for the cookbooks again. He rifled through them and pulled out the ones that had bits of paper sticking out and dumped them on the marble countertop, flipping through the recipes and scanning the list of ingredients. After confirming the items he needed were available, Lance Sterling had his menu ready to assemble:

_Pesto pasta with cherry tomato and vegan parmesan_

_Bruschettas with olive tapenade and balsamic vinegar_

_Brussel sprouts with spicy aioli dipping sauce_

_Rum banana bread for dessert_

Suddenly four hours no longer felt like a long time once he factored in plating, presentation, cleanup, and making it look effortless (Which cooking was _anything but)_. Lance didn't waste a second. He turned to the killbot monitoring his every move and asked, "Ey, you got an apron somewhere?" The bot hovered to eye level and drew out a small grey apron from the lab, of all places. Lance wrinkled his nose at the frills on the edges but beggars couldn't be choosers. Especially when they wore tailored brand name suits.

"Alright, give it here. Now get me three pans, boil a pot of water, and set the oven to three fifty…" 

* * *

  
  


Walter felt the meeting drag on for an obscenely long time and was surprised to learn they had actually finished a full hour early. 

It might have had something to do with Madame DuPont getting captured by the Agency last week or the brusque way Killian (who was leading this week) moved things along when he felt anyone was babbling off topic. 

Some of the villains assembled lingered to speak to each other. Walter shouldered on his backpack. No one ever tried to make conversation with him unless they needed something or wanted to hire his services. They were also, all of them, at least ten years his senior. 

_So is Agent Sterling_

Walter thought, marveling at how easy it was to talk to the spy. Walter felt a smile stretch across his face. He couldn't wait to get home. 

"Beckett." 

_Ah._

Walter was fielded off at the exit by Killian who stood there like a bird of prey blocking the way. "My bots," he said, simply. "I'll have them done two days from now." "That's what you said last time," Killian replied, icily. "I know, I know, but I ran into some programming bugs. They're hard to account for but I've fixed them now. It's just going to take some time to upload and test the software. Two more days. Honest." 

Walter smartly neglected to ask for an extra day despite wasting time by not getting any work done yesterday. How could he, with his mind playing reruns of his encounters with Agent Lance Sterling on repeat? It made him forget everything else.

"Two days," Killian repeated. " _Or else_."

Why did his contemporaries always have to _p.s._ a threat to everything? What was wrong with a classic _okay_ or _sounds great, I really appreciate all your hard work_ every once in a while? 

"Mm-hm!" Walter nodded and all but ran out when Killian stepped aside half a step to let him through. Inside his backpack Lovey made a startled sound at the sudden jostling and Walter apologized, slowing his pace. 

_I hope Agent Sterling hasn't had lunch yet. Then we can eat together!_

He thought, heart thrumming with emotion.

* * *

Sterling was just putting the garnish on the main course when he heard the timer go off. “Get that out of the oven,” he commanded the robot, too focused on getting the sprig of parsley to notice it took the bot an unusually long time to obey. When he finally looked up, Agent Lance Sterling nearly had his second heart attack of the day.

Walter had materialized out of nowhere and was staring at him with sparkling blue eyes and a slack-jawed face.

_“Fuuuhuhuhkkk! Dude! Stop doing that!”_

Sterling yelled, turning around and walking a few paces away to walk off the thrill of adrenaline. He hadn’t heard the kid come in over the music the robot was blasting. 

“Turn it off,” he commanded. The music didn’t cease. 

“Music off,” Walter said, bringing the beat down. He gave Sterling an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Walter grabbed a washcloth and fetched the beautifully crisped brussel sprouts from the oven. The smell of olive oil and garlic created a pleasant mouth-watering smell. 

“The bots are designed to stop taking orders once I’m in the room. Safety precaution,” Walter explained, setting down the tray before turning his attention to the pretty plate of pasta the spy had just decorated with a perfectly placed basil leaf. “That looks _amazing,_ Agent Sterling,” Walter said with feeling. Lance resisted the urge to puff up his chest with pride. 

Walter looked back at the spy, a strange smile quivering on his lips. 

“The apron is a surprise, too. Pink suits you, Agent Sterling.”

Lance frowned, confused.

“What? This is grey.”

“But it’s... _oh,_ ” Walter trailed off as the information that super secret agent Lance Sterling was severely colorblind sank in. 

Lance reached behind him to undo the frilly apparently _pink_ apron but not before Walter Beckett drew out his phone and snapped an incriminating picture. 

Lance’s jaw dropped and Walter quickly stepped away with the least incriminating expression on his baby face. 

“So. Can I help you bring the dishes to the table?”

"Give me the phone."

"No."

_"Walter."_

"Yes, Agent Sterling?"

"I ain't playing with you boy. Hand it over." 

"No can do, Mister Sterling"

Lance made a lunge for the phone and in the next instant was pinned to the cold ground by the ever-vigilant killbot that had been assisting him only minutes before. 

“Stop!” Walter cried out. The bot froze and Walter pushed it out of the way, concern clouding his eyes. “Are you alright? Did you hit your head?” Lance ignored Walter’s outstretched hand in favor of pushing himself up. “Fine, fine. I shoulda known something like that would happen,” he answered. It didn’t register on his face but Lance Sterling’s heart was racing a mile a minute. 

For just a second he saw _it._

_A signal bar on Walter’s phone._

He forced himself to file away the information and not examine it. Yet. 

“Delete that or you’re not getting dinner,” he said, tossing the apron on the counter, transferring the brussel sprouts to a large plate where they had enough room to spread out elegantly. 

“You cooked lunch for _me,_ too?” Walter asked softly, eyes blown wide in disbelief.

“Well _I’m_ not going to eat all this alone,” Lance answered smoothly.

“But why?”

Lance shrugged. 

_Because I am laying the foundation to trap you._

“You hungry or not?”

“Yes! Yes, I am! Starving!”

Lance raised an eyebrow.

“Oh! Right, right!” Walter unlocked his phone and deleted the picture before the spy’s eyes. 

Lance smiled, satisfied. “Good.”

While the banana bread baked dutifully in the oven they sat down to a spread that, if Lance was that kind of person, would have snapped a picture of. Walter refused to eat until he had taken well over a dozen pictures from several angles. As he did so, Lance realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d cooked for anyone. He suddenly felt an uncharacteristic knot of nervousness when Walter finally sat down to take a bite of the pasta.

 _“Oh my gosh,”_ he whispered, closing his eyes.

“S’good, huh?” Lance found himself asking more confidently than he felt. 

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever had,” Walter answered blissfully.

Lance pushed down the immense feeling of satisfaction he felt from the well-deserved praise. 

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Walter asked, between bites.

“Self taught. I get weekends to myself, usually. I’ve had lots of practice. Being a spy just gives me enough time to rest between missions and cook.”

“Oh. You don’t...I mean,” Walter faltered, struggling to word his question. 

“What?”

“Spend time with family? Or friends?”

Sterling swirled a forkful of pasta.

“Don’t have any to spend time with. The only people I spend time with are either trying to kill me or briefing me on my next assignment. It gets _lonely_ sometimes, I guess,” he answered honestly with calculated vulnerability. The confession made him uncomfortable but had the desired effect. Walter seemed to perk up at the prospect of having something in common. 

“I totally get where you’re coming from. It’s hard sometimes...being on your own.”

“Mmn. Try the bruschetta,” Lance said, reaching for one himself. 

“Okay,” Walter said with an enthusiastic smile. He had a little snaggletooth Sterling hadn’t noticed before. 

_Agent Beckett has the same thing._

Walter was too busy enjoying the meal to take stock of how still and quiet the spy had suddenly become. 

Lance Sterling knew Agent George Beckett from work. He was unpleasant, rude, and ill-tempered but competent at field work. They’d only crossed paths twice. He was also among the Agency's many casualties during the disastrous Kyrgyzstan mission last spring. 

Lance felt himself smile, finally taking a bite out of the perfectly toasted bread, careful not to spill any of the tomato cubes piled on top. This revelation, coupled with the phone signal, was bound to come in handy soon.

"This is kind of romantic, isn't it," Walter asked suddenly, attempting humor. He regretted it instantly when Lance Sterling started choking profusely on a crust of bruschetta. 

He spent the next two minutes patting the spy on the back, reassuring him it was a joke and doing all he could to keep from laughing.

Walter Beckett couldn't remember the last time he felt this happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celebrating the release of Spies in Disguise dvd with an extra long chapter! Can't wait to play it way too many times and freeze frame all the best bits. Know what I'm sayin,' Pigeon Gang?


	7. Nothing to apologize for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Sung to the tune of The Little Mermaid's "Part of your world"*
> 
> A chapter where Lance feels, what's the word? 
> 
> Guiiiiilt.
> 
> ________________
> 
> PSA: If anyone is triggered by panic attacks: be ye warned.

They're both sitting on the couch recovering from food-induced comas and watching end credits on screen when it happens. Walter is typing out a message on his phone when Lance breaks their silence. 

"I wonder how Marcy and the guys are doing," the spy says contemplatively as if talking to himself. Walter takes the bait and turns his attention to him.

"The guys?"

"My team."

"But I thought you fly solo. That's what it said in your interview," Walter replies, brows knit in confusion. 

_Crap._

"Must've cut that part out. We don't work together per se but we pass the baton to the next guy when we need to coordinate."

"I see," Walter says, seemingly satisfied with the response. Lance waits for the other shoe to drop.

"And Marcy is one of your teammates?"

"Yep. Marcy, Eyes, Ears...and the new guy. What was his name again?"

The spy, who has both of his arms stretched out on the back of the couch let's his head hang back with a sigh as he stares at the ceiling. He goes through the motions of trying to rake up a buried name like a pro.

"Hang on, this is gonna drive me crazy. This new guy who joined the team. Real piece of work, lemme tell ya," Lance rolls his eyes, giving Walter a conspiratorial look. Walter smiles back. "Yeah?"

"Wait, I got it. Beck...uhh... _Beckett_. Yeah, that's it." Lance doubletaps a finger to his temple with a smirk. "I never forget a name."

From the periphery Lance notices Walter's smile disappear as if someone slapped it off him. 

"What's his first name?" The young man asks quietly, suddenly very still. 

Lance pretends not to notice anything remiss and forks a third slice of warm banana bread waiting on the coffee table in front of them.

"George, I think. Why?" 

Lance stuffs in a bite of perfect rich buttery wonder before diverting his gaze back to Walter in time to see the color drain from the young man's face.

It's the confirmation Lance has been eagerly waiting for and he could shout for joy for being right on the money. Instead, he continues the charade.

"You good there, Walter?"

He clearly wasn't. Walter looked shell shocked. Lance reached out a hand and gently shook him by the shoulder. 

"Hey. Earth to Walter." 

The kid didn't even notice. His breath was coming in faster and shallower. His eyes were wide open but it didn't seem like they could see what was in front of them. It was disturbing. 

" _Dad works at the_..." Walter uttered in a choked whisper before spiralling into full blown panic.

The phone fell from his hands, clattering to the floor. Walter suddenly curled in on himself, arms crossed over his chest in a protective self hug. He trembled as if freezing, breaths coming faster still, as if the air in the room was thin; too thin to fill his lungs properly. Within seconds the small brown and white pigeon flapped over from an unseen spot and settled on her master's shoulder. 

Lance Sterling put a hand on the small back and quietly picked up the discarded phone with the other, silently thumbing the phone screen to keep it from locking. He's careful to keep his attention on Walter, not really focusing on what his fingers touch on screen. 

"It's okay, Walter it's okay. Just breathe. Focus on my voice. Focus on what you can hear and feel. What can you feel, Walter? Talk to me."

 _"Lance...Lance...Lance…I can't...I can't..."_ Walter chokes out between gasps, still doubled over. 

"Breathe. Slow breaths. Come on Walter. You can do it. Steady," Lance instructs calmly. He's had to talk down field agents before in high stress situations. This isn't anything new. 

Carefully, once it's clear Walter wouldn't move or raise his head anytime soon, Lance held out the phone in front of him at arm's length. He double checked the device was muted and tapped out a message:

_Agent Sterling. Trace this phone. Found the guy we've been tracking._

Then, with a self satisfied smile, he added:

_You're welcome._

Once it sent, Lance promptly deleted the text and smoothly slid the phone back to where it had fallen. 

"Walter. You need to ground yourself. Just tell me five things you can feel," Lance continues, unsure of why he's going through the trouble but chalking it up to force of habit and not leaving a job half finished.

Walter manages to answer, with great difficulty. 

"I feel...the couch on-on my legs. And...Lovey on my shoulder."

"Good. What else?"

"Your hand on...my...back. It's _warm_. Heavy." 

Walter's breathing is more even now but he's still trembling. 

"Can I-?" 

Walter trails off, reaching out long slender fingers in a meek but determined manner. His hands extend slowly in Lance's direction and settle on the fabric of his armsleeve. Walter is careful to hold onto the blazer and nothing else. He won't meet Sterling's eyes but waits like a rabbit listening for a sign to run away. 

He waits for resistance and reprimand. It doesn't come. The spy let's things play out. Walter releases a shaky wet breath and sits up enough to lean his head forward until his forehead is pressed against Lance's shoulder. 

Then, when the spy doesn't pull away, Lance feels nervous fingers wrap themselves around his upper arm. Walter doesn't move for a long while but Lance can feel his warm breath through the fabric. 

"Hey man, you better not cry on this. It's dry clean only," Sterling jokes gently. "I won't," Walter promises in muffled tones. 

Looking back, it was entirely possible that Walter wouldn't react according to plan. 

But, given how he had an emotional support animal, the odds of him suffering panic attacks as a byproduct of anxiety or whatever ailed him seemed promising. The plan could not have gone any better. 

_So why do I feel dirty?_

Lance can't help but think, as he sits with his enemy for about ten minutes. Eventually, Walter pulls away, rubbing at his face in embarrassment. He looks exhausted.

"You ok?" Lance asks, shifting to face him properly. 

"No," the young man replies with a wavering smile and misty eyes. _He really looks like a child,_ Lance thinks, staunchly ignoring the inexplicable guilt knotting in his belly. He has nothing to feel sorry for. Nothing at all. 

"Your scars…" Lance begins, unsure of where he's going with the question or why it matters. What is he doing, bringing it up at all, now?

"Memories from my dad," Walter replies without hesitation.

Lance feels that tightness in his skull again like he did in the lab the last time. 

Walter stares off into the distance but when Lance follows his gaze it's clear the kid isn't looking at anything. He's eerily calm, mind a million miles away. He raises a finger to stroke Lovey's chest absently, then asks:

"Will you listen to my story, Agent Sterling?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand it looks like I added another chapter to the fic because:
> 
> A. Because  
> B. I really wanna make another long chapter and didn't wanna keep you guys waiting until then. 💖
> 
> PSA: For any folks who have panic attacks or anxiety, the grounding technique Lance walks Walter though can be really helpful. Focusing on 5 things you can see, feel, and hear in the moment helps in the moment to bring you back to the present instead of getting stuck in the terrible thoughts and feelings in your head. 
> 
> PSA #2:
> 
> Since we're in the topic of mental health and the Corona virus has some folks worried and scared, here's a really cool site where you can design an emotional journey coloring book to help work through emotions, trauma, and generally check in with yourself and your emotional health:  
> https://wheretwowillgather.com/


	8. Like a nail through a butterfly wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit rough. Descriptions of abuse and suicidal thoughts. Be ye warned.

Walter doesn’t speak for a long while. When he does his words are slow; heavy like hot drops of blood sliding down freezing skin.

“My dad was clever. Too clever to get caught,” he says thickly, staring intently at a spot on the carpet. Walter trails off and Sterling’s foot starts falling asleep.

He’s about to reach out a hand to rest on a slender shoulder and encourage the story forward but he sees the young man gulp and continue. On the table Walter's phone buzzes but he ignores it.

“But he was always good to mom. Kind. In front of her he was the perfect father. Got me presents all the time. Took me to school. He would have helped with homework too if I’d needed it.”

Walter smiles and it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“She always thought I was just being a mama’s boy. I’d never want her to leave my side. I told her the monster would get me if she left. But she had to go to work. She had to be a cop and protect people. The second the door shut behind her...that's when the _monster_ appeared.”

Walter’s voice is eerily calm. His eyes are somewhere far away. Would he even notice if Sterling walked away?

“My father would use whatever he had on hand to _discipline_ me. Steak knives. Belt buckles. A remote control, once. Cracked it so hard over my skull I blacked out.”

Saying this, Walter runs a hand along the top of his hairline, pushing back curled brown locks to reveal a hidden white scar. Lance Sterling has a bizarre urge to touch the little line. Walter buries his face in his hands. His legs tremble.

“I tried to be the son he wanted. I thought maybe if I could be what he wanted then the nightmare would stop. Nothing I did changed it. It always ended up the same. I think I was seven when I stopped trying. Stopped eating. I didn’t want...I didn’t want to...I didn’t…”

“You didn’t wanna be around anymore.” Sterling finishes for him, gently. Walter nods into his hands.

“When my mom asked me why I wasn’t eating I didn’t hear her. She reached out a hand and touched a...a wound. I screamed and she lifted up my shirt to see what was wrong. Next thing I knew we were out of the house and never went back. Never saw dad again. I lost mom two years later.”

Walter finally lifts his head. His face is shiny and wet.

“Before that I remember thinking that was the happiest I would ever be in my life. I was right.”

Walter lets out a sigh.

“Then child services showed up. Said they’d found my dad. He wanted me back.”

Lance feels his blood run cold.

“There was a man and a woman. I was making an invention at the time. Something to keep me safe in case...in case the monster showed up again.”

Walter blinks quickly, gaze diverting to the ceiling lights. He’s been very careful to avoid Sterling’s eyes.

“They came into the house. Didn’t say anything. Just said I had to go. They grabbed my hand and tried to pull me along. Then everything went _red._ Red, red, red. No sound. Not even a scream.”

Walter finally looks the spy in the eye. His eyes are empty. It sends a shiver down Lance’s spine.

“My invention worked. They were the first test subjects.”

In only an hour they reach the end of Walter’s story. How a ten year old genius survived and made a name for himself in the criminal underbelly as an inventor for hire within a matter of years. How he siphoned money to survive and escaped the system. How he raised himself with nothing but brilliance and fear.

“Do you hate me, agent Sterling?”

Walter suddenly asks. His voice is hoarse, legs drawn up to his chest. His chin rests on his knees. He’s facing the spy, pinning him in place like a nail through a butterfly wing with tired blue eyes.

“No,” Lance answers honestly. “I don’t hate you, Walter.”

He surprises himself because it’s true. Walter holds his gaze a bit longer then smiles.

“Thank you, agent Sterling.”

Walter gets up and begins to clear away the dishes. The clock reads 1:43am. Lance rises from the couch, sore from all the sitting.

“Hey man, I’m gonna turn in. It's late and-"

Lance is cut off by a sensation around the waist. He looks down to confirm what he feels: lean arms wrapped tightly around his midsection in a tight hug. He feels the warmth of Walter's cheek against his back.

"Thank you for listening."

" _Uh._ Yeah. Yeah, you're welcome, Walter."

The hug lasts longer than anyone would deem socially acceptable.

 _And there is something distinctly unacceptable about getting a hug from another dude from behind,_ Lance thinks to himself before his kidnapper lets go and bids him good night, disappearing into his lab and leaving Sterling at a loss for the umpteenth time in the four days they've known each other.

* * *

Killian glares at his illuminated phone from the darkness. What suicidal lunatic is messaging him at half past midnight? The only people that have his number know better than to call it.

With a scowl he reaches out a hand and picks up the phone. It's from Beckett.

Killian sits up in bed. It's a missed 2 second call.

"My robots must be ready," Killian says to himself with a rare smile. He taps out a message.

**_I'm on my way._ **

Yes, it's unprofessional but he's waited long enough. And its not like he can fall back asleep anyway.

Within ten minutes Killian is dressed and set the coordinates for the inventor's lair. He should arrive within an hour's time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of carelessly thumbing through someone else's phone without permission are to die for. 
> 
> Also also the next chapter really will be the last one, truly. Hope you are all keeping well with all the COVID-19 madness out there!
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me till now!   
> Please leave a comment to let me know you're still reading and enjoying the story! 😁♥️


	9. This is the way it ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last roundup. Time for a satisfying ending, pigeon gang.

Lance Sterling is a man of action more than a man of over baked thoughts. He always found people who spent all their spare time trapped in their minds to be fussy, annoying, and, worst of all, boring. Perhaps he's never had much to muse about he thinks, but that line of thinking is quickly discarded. 

No, if anything, Lance Sterling figured out a long long time ago that thinking too much was like stirring up the bottom of a tide pool. Things that were clear and made sense suddenly became murky and confusing. The pieces settled peacefully on the bottom that had their proper place shifted and settled elsewhere after the chaos. He never wanted to know why the bad guys were bad or why the good guys were good. All that mattered was having clear objectives: who to punch and how hard.

The spy groaned, scrubbing a hand roughly across his face. His fingers smell of the garlic he minced earlier so he regrets the gesture and moves over to the sink to try and wash off the lingering smell. 

"Trouble with garlic...cut it and it gets revenge by sticking to ya for hours," Sterling muses aloud while sudsing. 

He thinks about Walter. He meant to ask if the young man wanted revenge on his father. Didn't seem like he knew the old man was tied to the Agency he's been giving the runaround to. It's ironic to the extreme. 

_He just wanted to feel safe. Everyone who was supposed to protect him failed._ Sterling thinks bitterly. 

He turns off the tap and catches himself.

_Don't go there. Don't think. It's pointless._

Lance Sterling is a man who expends his energy kinetically. He thinks when he has to problem solve. He doesn't dwell on the past. Dwelling on the past is for sad sacks who have nothing better to do than feel sorry for themselves. 

_Unless they have to live with the pain every day because the trauma sealed into the mind won't let them forget what scarred them._

His mind unhelpfully supplies a line from his mandatory classroom training. The part where they covered PTSD and other disorders that posed a very real threat for operatives in the field. Sterling has never used the counseling or therapy services provided by the agency. Talking about dead comrades won't bring them back. All the regret in the world won't avenge the innocent. It's stupid. 

He feels the tide pool stirring. This is the opposite of what he wants. He just wants to wait for rescue. He wants justice done. Walter will get the punishment he deserves for his crimes. Sterling will finally get the reward of sleeping in his own bed. He'll have real butter to spread on his toast in the morning instead of that millennial vegan garbage. Everything will be as it should be. He's not in the wrong. The agency can take it from here. What happens after is none of his business. 

_Did the Agency know about George Beckett's sins against his own child?_

Lance feels his eyes screw shut, the muscles around his eyebrows and cheeks scrunching up the flesh uncomfortably. 

_Of course they did. The United States government recruited former Nazi scientists to work on the space program in exchange for immunity. If you can't beat 'em, have them join._ _Good talent is in short supply._

Sterling's fist slams into the marble counter top with enough force to rattle the clean dishes stacked beside him. The blow sends pain firing through the muscle and tendon.

"Keep it together, Lance," he instructs himself coldly. "You're better than this."

_"People like you, agent Sterling, hate the less fortunate. You destroy indiscriminately in the name of justice."_

"Shut up, Walter."

_"Will you listen to my story, agent Sterling?"_

"I said shut up..."

"Agent Sterling!"

" **S** **hut up!"**

Lance all but roars this as his head swivels to the right, eyes locking on the very real and frantic-eyed scientist at his elbow. Thin nervous fingers are pulling his arm desperately. 

"Agent Sterling, you gotta hide! He'll see you! He _can't_ see you!"

"What are you talking about? Who can't see me?"

Above their heads the metallic whirring of a hatch announce the arrival of the unannounced visitor. Lance plants his feet while Walter keeps trying to pull him along.

"Please, Agent Sterling. Hide behind the couch! _He'll kill you_." 

So it's not the cavalry. As a stealth craft that is not an Agency model begins lowering itself into the lair, Lance complies and ducks behind the white couch they were seated at only minutes before. He's hidden from sight just in time. From his hiding spot he hears the craft touch down and the slow deliberate steps on a man whose expensive shoes Lance can see from the gap between the furniture and floor. Walter's own worn converse shift nervously in front of him as he stands in front of the mystery man.

"Killian! What a...surprise! How can I help you?" Walter asks, voice pitched higher from nervousness. 

"You called me, Beckett. I'm here for my robots."

"Eh? I called you?"

Lance would face palm if his own carelessness wouldn't give him away. 

"You did," the man replies resolutely. 

"Oh. Well. I, uh, made a mistake. Sorry. Um. And the robots. I've been meaning to tell you. I don't think I can finish them for you. Sorry."

Killian is dead silent and Lance feels his jaw drop in mutual disbelief. When he does speak again, the man's voice is hard enough to cut diamond. 

_"I'm not leaving without what I came for."_

Walter makes an annoying sound. A drawn out " _Mmmmm"_ that Lance can practically see in his mind's eye as the ":/ " emoji.

"You're kinda gonna have to. I mean, don't worry, I'll refund you in full, definitely. But, um, I'm retiring. I'm closing up shop. For good."

Lance barely has enough time to register this new information when there's a crash as Walter's feet leave the ground and he slams against the opposite wall. Walter gasps and coughs. He scrambles to get up but Killian is on him like a viper. Lance hears a metal clicking as Walter's slight body is lifted off the floor and held against the wall.

 _"I'm not in the mood for jokes, Beckett,"_ the man growls murderously. "Finish the job."

Walter's struggles but replies quietly and firmly. "No."

"You brought this on yourself," Killian says in a voice that Lance knows from experience means that the situation is careening to critically dangerous territory. 

"Y'know, consent is important. In like, all circumstances. Didn't your mama ever tell you "no" means what it means?"

Lance's voice is light and conversational as he smoothly rises from his hiding place with a smirk. His heart is thundering in his chest as two pairs of eyes, one horrified, and another shocked, latch onto him. 

" _Sterling,"_ The man spits venomously, releasing his metal claw hand and dropping Walter roughly to the floor. 

"I see my reputation precedes me," Sterling says with practiced diffidence, brushing at invisible dust on his blazer as if his opponent doesn't even warrant his full attention. His mind is scrambling to place the face but he's drawing a blank.

Killian chuckles and it's a sharp sound like glass cracking. "Always armed with wit, eh, agent Sterling? Same as ever." Without warning, the man rushes forward with frightening speed and Lance has just enough time to duck and avoid having his handsome face ripped clean off. He manages to land a powerful kick on his opponent's stomach and send the man stumbling back several feet with a satisfying _"umph!"_ sound and put some distance between them. 

"Woah, okay. Okay, I see how it is. My dude, you gotta ease into it. It's bad form to go right for the kill without warming up first. You'll pull a muscle."

Killian glares at him and Lance assesses his options. Without weapons they include: _Don't die_ and _Stay alive._ Fantastic. 

"Agent Sterling, _duck_!" 

Walter's frantic voice cuts through the noise and Sterling manages to dip down just in time to feel the killbot scissor past the top of his head. It blasts a laser at Killian who sideswipes the machine as it continues its assault. Killian disappears behind something for cover and Lance runs to the counter to secure the steak knife he's been eyeing. 

Three things happen in the next seven seconds:

**The killbot bursts into flames and slams into the ground.**

**Lance's hand wraps around the handle of the knife.**

**Killian's claw sinks right into his chest in a burst of searing hot pain.**

Lance feels the breath leave him in a startled gasp. His back slams into the floor. Killian is on him and bearing a crushing weight on the spy. Sterling's hands go instinctively to the metal that's digging deeper into his flesh. He can feel it. Tissue and sinews tearing as warm blood rushes to the surface. The claw sinks deeper into him and he can't even scream; only stare blankly at the triumphant blue eyes of his adversary jeering at him. 

"This is for Kyrgyzstan. For my men. For the day you took my _life_ from me." 

_He's bleeding out. He's going to die. Lance Sterling is going to die._

"Any last words, Lance?" 

He sees a shock of brown curls behind Killian's shoulder.

"Heh...that's my…line."

_"What?"_

Killian doesn't even have the chance to do anything before a small laser burns a hole through his throat and he falls forward, dead before he slumps over Lance, claw still embedded on the spot.

"Agent Sterling! Are you okay? Are you…"

Walter rolls Killian off of him him and Lance gasps. Walter leans worriedly over him and freezes, eyes blown wide in horror. 

"Lance...no, please, no Lance," Walter pleads desperately, sinking to his knees beside him and grasping at his own hair in distress. He's pale. Scared as he is, he looks even younger. Tears well in his eyes. Has anyone ever cried over him, before? _Maybe_ _it's a trick of the light,_ Sterling thinks. Everything is bleeding. His chest. The colors. The burning bright light. He's cold and tired. Maybe he should sleep. Get his strength back. Just a little rest...

"No no no no no no, _please,_ God, no. Lance, look at me. Hang on. Please. You're all I have left. _Lance!"_

Everything goes dark.

* * *

"Woah. Who's the stiff? Chief, area secure. No active explosives," Ears reports indifferently as Marcy and her agents pour into the last known location where they received a message from agent Lance Sterling. 

"No idea. Fan out and search," Marcy instructs, surveying the area. They're in a simply furnished kitchen and living area that would look like every other evil lair if it wasn't for the dead man in the center. The pool of blood acting as a carpet looks like it belongs to more than one person if the marks of a body being dragged away from the bloodbath are any indicator, Marcy thinks, disturbed. 

"Do you think this is Sterling's work," asks Eyes, moving closer like a lanky ibis. 

"It does seem that way but _look,"_ Marcy says, indicating to bloody footprints leading away from the crime scene. "Those shoes aren't Sterling's. At least one other person was here. Sterling didn't walk out of here on his own."

"A friend?" Eyes asks, hopefully. 

"Let's hope so. Keep scanning. Sterling must have left a clue for us…"

* * *

Lance Sterling wakes groggily to the gentle beeping of monitors the sound of his own labored breathing. It takes a few seconds for his mind to register that he’s in a hospital room and _not dead._ It’s a miracle, considering the buckets of blood he lost. Beside him something stirs. Eyes barely cracked open he’s just able to make out Walter’s silhouette in a chair beside him. 

He’s saying something and it takes more energy than Lance has to focus and understand. He does it anyway.

“Before you showed up...I didn’t mind being lonely. You get used to it after a while. Then it sort of...becomes a part of you. You get used to anything with enough time,” Walter says, looking at his hands. 

“Then you appeared and...please don’t hate me but I was so pleased. No. I was happy. Excited, even. I had company for the first time since...since never,” Walter continues with a laugh. It’s short and sad. He clears his throat, looking at the muted tv in front of him. 

“I knew you were lying, Lance,” he says quietly. “I knew you were trying to lower my guard. That you had a plan. The world’s greatest spy...you had to be cooking something up. Only in your case it turned out to be literal _and_ figurative. Who knew you were such a good cook. Last time I had a home cooked meal it was my mom’s. To tell you the truth it was hard not to cry during lunch. I didn’t want to weird you out anymore than I already had.”

Walter dips his head forward. He brushes a hand across his face. His voice is wobbly and heavy with emotion but he says every word clearly. 

"I wanted to believe your lie so badly, Lance. So I did. It made me feel like...like I mattered to someone. Like I existed. Even though I knew it could never be true. Someone like you...would never think twice about..." 

Walter’s words break off into a choked sob. Lance can't respond. He’s still so tired and on Lord knows how many pain meds. 

"Please. Please be okay. I don’t wanna lose you too." 

Walter weeps quietly. Lance falls into blissful unconsciousness again.

* * *

When he comes to a second time he is alone in the hospital room. Lance sits up as quickly as he can. It’s awkward with all the tubing going in and out of him. There’s even a catheter. _Fan-flipping-tastic._ Walter is nowhere in sight. Lance has to work quickly. He presses the button to call the nurse. He needs access to surveillance footage and times and dates. And a martini. He’s probably on way too many analgesics for that to be advisable but after the week he’s had he could care less. 

He’s on his fifth nurse call button press when Walter walks in with a steaming paper cup in his hands and the brown and white pigeon on his head. Lance feels his eyes widen and his brain mildly short circuits at the unexpected development. 

“Lance,” Walter whispers breathlessly before abandoning the cup and its contents on the floor. Within two morphine-induced blinks Walter is at his bedside, arms wrapped around his sore neck in a hug that hurts _way too much_ but Sterling has too much manly pride to voice a complaint. 

Instead, he says, “Hey,” as casually as possible while knowing he’s hooked up to a catheter and probably looks and smells like death. 

This hug also goes on for way too long and, somehow, Lance doesn’t have it in him to say so this time, either. 

“You saved my life,” Walter says at length, finally pulling away. 

“Yeah well, you returned the favor right after so we’re good,” Lance answers frankly.

They're silent for several heavy seconds. Walter's eyes feel expectant, as if he wants the spy to lead the conversation. _N_ _othing's ever easy,_ Lance thinks, unsure of what he should say at this point. Then, 

“Look, Walter...did you mean what you said last night? Are you really quitting the super villain business?” Lance asks, giving the young man a searching look. 

Walter nods. Dark circles make his eyes look all the brighter. He looks like he hasn't slept since before the spy was claw-stabbed. 

“I am. Don’t think I have the personality for it, according to a reputable source.” 

Lance holds his gaze for a few seconds, feeling out the integrity of the words. He chuckles when he instinctively _knows_ the words ring true and then remembers the previously gaping wound he’s recovering from and thinks better of it. “You're really something else. What made you change your mind?”

Walter smiles warmly at him. “You did, Lance.” 

He says it so sincerely and without any reserve that Lance has to look away. He feels painfully embarrassed for no good reason and tries shaking it off with a cough. 

“Good. Yeah, that’s good. Great. Good stuff, Walter. You made the right choice.” 

“Are you... _embarrassed_ , agent Sterling?” Walter asks, surprised.

“I’m not. Shut up.” 

“You _are,”_ Walter affirms in disbelief. “Oh, wow.”

“Drop it, Walter. I-”

_“Agent Sterling.”_

Their heads swivel to the entrance to reveal Marcy Kappel standing in the open doorway with a nurse; her small team assembled behind her. Walter rises suddenly, eyes wide. The pigeon on his head coos as if asking a question. Lance immediately remembers requesting the agency track Walter's phone a small eternity ago. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Walter tense and begin to reach for something in his pocket. Marcy looks ready for anything. Lance needs to act fast.

“Hey, Marcy. Nice of you to visit,” Lance acknowledges lightly, waving at her. He incorporates the Agency's "stand down" gesture into the wave and her shoulders relax fractionally. 

Marcy is well aware that he wouldn't be so cavalier if there was any immediate danger. She flashes him a brief, relieved smile before her eyes snap to Walter with full suspicion. Behind her, Eyes and Ears crane their necks for a better look. 

“Who’s this?”

“My nephew. Walter.” Walter’s head snaps to him so rapidly Lance could kick him for making it painfully obvious this is the first time he’s heard they’re related by blood.

“Your _nephew_.”

“I know. The resemblance is uncanny,” Lance replies breezily. Nothing for it now. He’s gotta commit to the lie. 

“Eyes. Ears. Wait for me outside. Thank you for showing us his room, nurse.”

The crowd disperses and Marcy closes the door behind her. She looks silently from Walter to Lance. She clearly doesn’t believe him but she’s going along with it before making a decision on how to respond. 

“We found a man dead from where you last contacted us. Know anything about that?”

“Sure. He’s the one behind the MK-Assassin.” 

Marcy raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yep. The guy who commissioned it, anyway,” Lance replies honestly.

“Uh-huh. What about the guy who designed it?” She asks with a pointed look at Walter’s direction.

The spy gapes at her in mock surprise. 

“Marcy! I’m surprised at you. Doesn’t feel very progressive to assume the inventor was a dude.” 

“Given how 98% of the time it turns out that way I’d rather hedge my bets,” she answers with a smirk. Her eyes don’t leave Walter who shifts uncomfortably under her scrutiny. 

“You don’t have to worry about the inventor. I took care of him and the client. He’s not a threat. Not anymore.” 

Marcy opens her mouth to volley another question but Lance fields her off.

“Really. Everything is under control. In fact, seeing as you’re here, Marcy, this is the perfect opportunity to tell you that my nephew here wants to join the gadgets department,” Sterling says conversationally as if talking about Walter choosing a major in college. He lays a hand on Walter’s shoulder to steady him and flashes Marcy his most charming, morphine-induced smile. 

“In fact, I was gonna recommend him to director Joye, personally. He specializes in non-lethal weapons. The agency could really use him. Make a fresh start and hone his talents. Ain’t that right, Walter?”

Walter looks like he’s about to cry again and Sterling prays he doesn’t. He’s spared the waterworks and Walter answers brightly. “Yep! That’s right, Uncle Sterling.”

Marcy stares at them for a long while before she sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Lance. But you better know what you’re doing.” 

“Relax, Marcy. I’m a professional.” 

“So am I, dummy," She teases, hands on her hips. She gives him a tight smile, eyes serious. "So. This situation is under control?” 

“It’s under control,” Lance reassures her, painfully raising a hand to pat Walter on the back like a deactivated bomb. He turns to look but Lance keeps his eyes on Marcy. Finally, she nods. 

“Alright. Make it work." He's grateful for her trust. "I will. Thanks, Marcy." 

She turns on her heel. "Be seeing you, _Walter_.” 

As she walks away Lance makes a mental note to get her an edible arrangement or something equally overpriced to thank her later.

Once they can no longer hear her footsteps reverberating off the linoleum Walter turns to look at him again, eyes literal pools of glitter as he stares at Lance with incalculable awe.

“Did you mean that, Lance? Am I...are you really recruiting me?”

“Mm-hmm.” 

“Oh. Oh wow.”

Walter’s joy hits a snag as his expression suddenly darkens. 

“But dad-”

“Can’t hurt you. Not anymore. The agency said goodbye to him last month. Permanently.”

Walter reaches for the back of his chair and sits down again, stunned.

“...oh.”

This is a whole other conversation and Lance Sterling has neither the energy nor the willpower to follow through so he does the next best thing and shifts the responsibility.

“Yeah, we have counselors and therapists and all that at the agency. Might wanna book an appointment, So. You in?”

Walter’s smile is so dazzling it could put the sun to shame. He lifts up half a fist bump

“Team Weird?”

Lance smiles and lifts up the other half. Of course Walter wold choose a name like that. 

“Team Weird.” 

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about Killian. I actually really like him. But. He had to die. So he did. Horribly. 
> 
> On that note, you ever realize angsty fics are like spicy food? Like, they hurt but you can’t stop reading. An enjoyable pain. 
> 
> Anyway!
> 
> I wanted this story to be as insane an emotional roller coaster as was humanly possible. Please let me know if it was and if you enjoyed it via comments below. I read every single one and love interacting with the most unprecedented (and pigeon-friendly) fandom ever! 
> 
> If you're surprised this fic had a happy ending...so am I. Honestly, I figured it would end far more bittersweet. Now it truly is 50 shades of yayyyy!
> 
> p.s. Just made a twitter! Find me @SmidgeonPigeon if you wanna chat Spies in Disguise stuff! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully all of Lance's movie and tv show references adaquately date him. I know shows like Leave it to Beaver are before his time but he'd be old enough to remember it, I figure.
> 
> This fic is pure self indulgence but I hope to actually do some character analysis and explore how Walter could have plausably used his talents for the wrong side. 
> 
> One of the few benefits of being sick as a dog is that, unable to do any actual work, I have just enough remaining brain cells to create fanfic of a questionable nature. 
> 
> And really, what more could one ask for?


End file.
